


Xenopolycythemia

by Joules Mer (joulesmer)



Series: Strange Courage [3]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Grappling with Mortality, M/M, Major Illness, caring jim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-18 17:14:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14856846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joulesmer/pseuds/Joules%20Mer
Summary: Captain's log, stardate 5476.3. I have just had the sad duty of informing Starfleet about Dr. McCoy's condition and have requested an immediate replacement.Just one year into their five year mission it all comes crashing down.  It started with a bruise.  A series of bruises, oddly enough, shaped like the tips of Jim’s four fingers and his thumb.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Where it could be worked in, xenopolycythemia-specific dialogue was cribbed from the TOS episode: For The World Is Hollow and I Have Touched the Sky

It started with a bruise. A series of bruises, oddly enough, a constellation of blue and green shaped like the tips of Jim’s four fingers and his thumb. Leonard hadn’t even noticed them; it was Jim who glanced up one morning and winced, reaching out to brush his fingers over where the towel had slipped low on the doctor’s hips.

Glancing down, Leonard’s right eyebrow leapt at the sight of the bruises, recognizing their position immediately.

Gently cupping the worst of the marks, Jim raised apologetic eyes to the other man’s face, “I hadn’t realized I got a bit carried away.”

Eyebrow still raised, because the five spots were a livid purple that should have been unmissable, Leonard shrugged, “I didn’t feel a thing.”

Jim smirked at that, “Really, Bones?” Quirking an eyebrow of his own as he added, “Not a thing?”

And that just demanded a reply because Jim’s blue eyes had no right to be twinkling like that so early in the morning. There was a promising growl in Leonard’s tone as he stepped closer to the edge of the bed, leaning down to where Jim was sitting to plant a kiss on the side of the other man’s neck as he murmured, “I guess I was distracted.” He nipped right on the sensitive skin that was usually subjected to his hypos and grinned when the action elicited an un-captainly yelp. Things escalated rather quickly from there and by the time Jim hurried to the bridge for his shift, bruises were the last thing on either man’s mind.

 

The fatigue should have been harder to ignore, but it crept up on him until once again someone else commented on it.

The coffee at his elbow had slowly grown cool as Leonard sat in his office, late in the afternoon of a long shift, trying to review the crew fitness evals. It was tedious work, checking weight trends and cardiac stress tests and aerobic fitness measures, and seemed to be taking even longer than usual. Realizing he’d just checked Ensign Ramirez’ file twice, he scrubbed a hand over his face in frustration. It could be a nearly mindless task, and practically automatic after so many repetitions, but for some reason he just didn’t have the energy for the minimal focus required. The screen brightness was set to maximum, giving off an almost dazzling glow that usually helped him remain alert. Not today. With only half an hour left in his shift, Leonard dropped his stylus in disgust, scrubbing his hands through his hair and tugging, trying to wake himself up with the sharp bite of pain in his scalp, before being forced to Amit that at the current rate he’d be better off tackling it in the morning.

Nurse Chapel’s blue eyes followed him as he did a final round through the med bay, confirming that the area was empty and everything was in order. When Leonard passed close to her, she gently caught his arm, “This is the second time you’ve relieved yourself early this month. Are you feeling alright?”

“Fine, Christine.” Leonard smiled, slightly sheepish, “Just a little tired.” Which was an understatement, if he were honest. He felt frayed around the edges and disheveled, having nearly overslept that morning and rushed through his morning routine as a result. Self-consciously smoothing a hand over his hair, he completed his round and breathed a sigh of relief at being able to set aside work until the next day.

Chapel smirked at him as he left, waited until the door was about to close behind him before calling, “Don’t let the captain _work_ you too hard, sir.”

 

Shortness of breath. Any man would be short of breath under the right circumstances. McCoy collapsed face first; heart hammering, gasping like he’d run a marathon, unable to even weakly shift away from the tacky dampness underneath his belly. 

“Jesus, Bones.” Somewhere above and behind, Jim’s voice, “You’re so fucking good at that.” 

A hand stroked along his flank, but Leonard only managed another gasp in reply. Dimly, he heard a chuckle from Jim, before the bed shifted as the other man clambered backwards and stood.

Fuck, he was getting old. The bed shifted again and Leonard was gently rolled over, away from the wet spot on the sheets. Blinking his eyes open he found Jim smiling down at him; hair in complete disarray. Smiling, weakly, in reply as his attempts at breathing finally slowed to something closer to normal, a sliver of concern was chased away when his lips were snagged in a quick kiss.

“Come on,” A warm washcloth swiped over Leonard’s belly as Jim turned his attention to practicalities, “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Allowing himself to be gently maneuvered around the bed, Leonard’s eyes slipped shut and he was asleep shortly after Jim slipped in beside him.

Leonard woke alone the next morning, slowly swimming to consciousness and the realization that he couldn’t sense another presence in the bed. Sliding a foot backwards, he found the other side of the bed cool; clearly Jim had been gone for some time. It was unusual, but not unheard of, and he wondered what time it was because he still felt exhausted. Maybe a priority comm had come in without him waking for the hail. Jesus, he thought as he tried to shift and a limb didn’t quite cooperate, Jim really had fucked him senseless the night before. Lifting his head from the pillow with a grunt, Leonard’s eye was caught by a message waiting light blinking on the comm system. Reaching out, he jabbed a button and Jim’s warm tones filled the room, the smile that had been on his face audible to Leonard in the recording, “ _Morning sleepyhead, the agenda was still empty so I cancelled the senior staff briefing this morning. You’re not expected in med bay until ten. See you tonight._ ”

Blinking towards the bedside chrono, it appeared to be some time after nine, although the numbers were blurry. Reaching up, he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and blinked; his vision remained blurred for several long seconds before sluggishly resolving in a manner that suggested it was only a temporary reprieve.

Leonard’s heart began to thump, ominously, in his chest. He needed to get to the med bay.

**************

He didn’t remember the walk down, or throwing a uniform on with fumbling hands. But he did get himself under control enough that when he walked into the med bay at a normal speed it was with something approaching his normal voice as he said, “Check me over, Chris, please.”

It was the _please_ that did it: the word making her hurry to comply without a question or comment. Wielding a hand scanner, she didn’t even ask him to sit down as she passed the device over his upper body then took a small blood sample from his finger, the smallest puckering of her lips the only outward sign of her concern. He was grateful for the silence in the long pause before the scanner beeped and the large diagnostic display mounted in the wall sprang to life. 

The scan results were both unexpected and unmistakable. Chapel give a little gasp when she recognized the symptomology, but then the room seemed to vanish except for the readings on the screen and a rushing in Leonard’s ears. Excessive proliferation of red blood cells, abnormal hemoglobin and white corpuscle counts, retroviral markers… it wasn’t one of the dozen things he thought it could be. It wasn’t even one of the things he’d thought it _unlikely_ to be. This… the bruises, fatigue, shortness of breath… everything he’d ignored or simply shrugged off in the last weeks clamored for attention along with the rapidly crystallizing diagnosis. Outwardly, the doctor was stock still: mouth slightly slack with a frown half-frozen on his forehead as he faced the diagnostic screen. Inside, he was howling. It was an incoherent stream of disbelief and expletives that would have made even Jim blush, lapsing into southern euphemism and even a smattering of Orion when his Standard ran out.

Eventually, he didn’t know how long passed, Leonard surfaced enough to realize Chapel was staring at him intently; something in her eyes he didn’t want to consider. The scan results were still the same. Swallowing seemed to dampen the rushing in his ears, so he did it again for good measure. The thought that was starting to form went unfinished in favor of a spark of panic for _Jim_. Suddenly grateful for the mild allergic reaction that had brought the captain to med bay the day before, he pulled up the scan results: poring over the extraneous data that had been gathered with the standard scans. No elevated white counts, no retroviral indicators, no sign of infection… It was enough to make his shoulders visibly sag with relief, a sudden looping in his stomach that felt like the grav plating had cycled through a reset sequence.

If Jim was fine yesterday, then the rest of the crew should be as well. He’d need to scan Jim again, though, given their activities the night before. Damage control, he told himself, gathering his scattered thoughts and trying to focus on something he could actually do to take charge of the situation. Chapel: he could sense her hovering. Holding up a hand, ignoring the fact that he had a white-knuckled grip on the edge of a biobed with the other, Leonard indicated the results of his own scan and gruffly started, “I don’t want you to…”

She knew immediately what he was going to say, and cut him off before he could order her to keep quiet, “I am a nurse first, Doctor McCoy, and a member of the crew of the Enterprise second.” 

This didn’t sound like him taking control. In fact, this sounded like him abjectly out of control. Leonard could feel something clawing its way up his chest and into his throat, something with teeth and _fear_ that was going to threaten to choke him. He had to get her out of there before he lost it. There wasn’t enough air in the room, but he forced himself to take a breath and form the words: “You're excused. You may return to your quarters.” It was stilted and formal, nothing like their normal interactions.

“No, I'm sorry, Doctor.” She straightened, statuesque, as if resolute in the face of a firing squad, “I've called the captain and I'll wait until he comes.” 

Called the captain? Treachery, that’s what this was. Insubordination. A flash of hot anger and something closer to panic mingled even as he tried to portray an outward calm. There had to be some way to convince her to… Jim entered the fray then, boldly striding into a minefield as he barely waited for the door to close behind him before asking, “What's the emergency?” 

Ignoring the captain, Leonard ground out, “I said you were excused.” She flinched at that and he relented; knowing she was right, he continued more softly, “Please, Christine. I promise you I'll give the captain a full report.” 

Chapel nodded, blinked a few times, then quickly exited while her composure was intact. She didn’t meet the captain’s eyes as she left, even as his gaze followed her with undisguised curiosity.

Jim had seen the doctor interact with his staff countless times over the last year, and for all of McCoy’s reputation as a grouchy bastard it was clear the medical team was devoted to their chief, and he to them. This wasn’t anything he’d seen before. Running his eyes up and down the doctor’s form, Jim softly couched a question in an observation, “That was quite a scene.” Leonard’s professional mask was fully in place, although he looked distinctly disheveled around the edges. Hair not quite properly flat, wrinkled uniform sleeves, as if he’d been crossing his arms too tightly. Bad news, that was clear, but Jim couldn’t read more than that and it unsettled him. 

Before he could ask further, Leonard brandished a handheld device and, with his attention at a spot somewhere over Jim’s left shoulder, said, “Roll up your sleeve. I need a quick blood sample.”

That in itself was surprising as the hand scanners could pick up just about anything, but confronted with behavior he didn’t quite understand, Jim rolled up his sleeve without comment. Leonard drew a generous blood sample without making eye contact and quickly turned to the diagnostic console. Knowing what it was looking for, the computer took less than a minute to thoroughly scan the sample and deliver a verdict that was pure relief. Despite it feeling wrong to do so, Leonard made a point of carefully schooling his features before turning back to Jim. The captain was anxious, that much was clear from the awkward way he was standing next to the biobed, weight centred more on one hip than the other. Waving a hand in the air in a practiced gesture meant to allay concern, Leonard said, “You’re fine.” 

Instead of relief, Jim felt, if anything, more unsettled. He couldn’t remember the last time Bones had turned such a shuttered affect on him. Maybe in the aftermath of Khan. Maybe never. Tentatively, he asked, “But you’ve found something serious? In someone else?”

Leonard gulped down the thing in his throat; nodded, and in a voice that didn’t quite sound like himself said, “Terminal.” The med bay was too bright and the scan that Jim couldn’t read, his own scan, taunted him from across the room. Something he couldn’t fix.

That little furrow of concern that sometimes appeared between Jim’s thick eyebrows took up residence as he asked, “What is it?” 

Leonard was dissociating; it was the only explanation for how he managed to coolly stand there in front of the captain, his _partner_ in all of this, and report, “Xenopolycythemia. It has no cure.”

Jim’s mind was already racing ahead: he’d have to help Bones notify the crewman, request a replacement, help inform their family if it was one of the younger ensigns, and, oh fuck, was it contagious? Surely that would have been the first thing mentioned if it was? Forcing himself back to the discussion, he softly asked, “Who?” 

The tight control wavered then; no surgeon’s affect was made to cope with this, no matter how well cultivated. Leonard forced himself to meet the captain’s eyes, which meant he saw the precise moment his words were understood as he said, “Me, Jim.” 

There was all of six feet between them, but it may have been six light years. First Jim’s forehead creased, then his jaw went slack, then a pallor came over his features and the captain’s blue eyes went odd and flat. It was an expression Leonard had only seen once before, accompanied by the unimaginable horror of _fifteen thousand_ dead on the ground in San Francisco. Speaking, simply to fill the silence, the doctor continued, “The symptoms have been mild; I can remain on active duty. And there shouldn’t be concern of me passing it on to the crew, so long as I’m careful and monitor the stages. We’d just run a preliminary scan when Christine commed you. I’ll need to run some further tests to determine how far along it is, and how long I have left.” At some point he looked away from Jim’s face and back to the scan results, rambling slowing as the details glared back at him in a swirl of hemoglobin levels and cell counts and blood pressure...

Finding his voice in the silence, Jim asked the unthinkable, words heavy on his tongue, “But you have a suspicion?”

And Leonard did, too, and it was more than a suspicion. “A year. No more.” The damned disease was a certainty. He had to close his eyes for a moment to gather himself before he added, “I'll be most effective on the job in the time left, if you'll keep this to yourself.”

And that was the Chief Medical Officer speaking, not Jim’s partner. Not his _Bones_. Jim felt something crack inside him, as if a rib had buckled under the strain of his hammering heart. They stood there in the empty med bay: the captain and his chief medical officer, with a death sentence hanging between them.

Now that he looked, really looked, at the other man Jim could see the smudges that had taken up residence under the doctor’s eyes. A leanness to Bones’ face that had only appeared in recent weeks. How had he not noticed? Jim wanted to cross the gap between them, but his feet simply weren’t cooperating. They’d turned to quicksilver and pooled on the floor, too heavy to move to take a step.

Uhura’s voice broke the impasse: “Bridge to Captain Kirk: you have a priority one communication from Admiral Chandra.” It was a normal, everyday intrusion, and it felt all the more strange in a situation that was anything but.

Jim looked stricken, glancing towards the door, then back at his partner in a reflexive gesture borne of _duty_.

And that was the crux of it: for a year they had been captain and chief medical officer first, and Jim and Bones second. Even today, they fell into the same pattern. “Go.” Leonard waved a hand towards the door, the thing threatening to claw its way up his throat again because all he wanted was to go to their quarters, crawl into Jim’s arms and lock the door. “Duty calls. I’ll see you later.”

 _No fucking way_ , that was what Jim wanted to say, but instead all he managed was a slightly strangled sounding, “Bones.”

Waving towards the door, with a brittle twist of a half-smile on his face, McCoy somehow managed to insist, “Go.”

With effort, Jim squared his shoulders and left; the mask of captain already in place before the med bay doors closed behind him, even as something was slightly off about his gait. It was as if the knowledge diminished him somehow, taking away from his usually confident stride.

Leonard leaned against the edge of the biobed and tried not to be sick.

He wasn’t successful.

**************

Later turned out to be in the afternoon rather than the evening. A span of long hours that had started with Leonard locking himself in his office for a quiet breakdown after he’d cleaned up the mess on the floor, then grudgingly bringing back Chapel to call everyone he’d directly treated in the past months for a discreet physical. As they cleared the crewmembers one by one he’d turned to poring over his own scan results, as if the readings could change on their own. 

News trickled down from the bridge: Chandra had redirected them to a nearby system to retrieve the scientific and medical database from an abandoned Starfleet outpost. Leonard knew because he’d been copied on the mission briefing to the senior staff. No thanks to Jim. When it became apparent he wasn’t going to be called to join the away team, Leonard picked up his kit and stalked towards the door, Christine trailing unhappily in his wake.

They beat the away team to the transporter bay and the duty ensign was happy enough to be temporarily relieved to get a coffee; for all Leonard hated it, transporting while in standard orbit was only a few flicks of a switch and Christine could do it well enough. It was one of the few elements of ships operations that all medical crew were trained to do in emergency situations. In truth, he didn’t want there to be any witnesses if Jim kicked up a fuss and was willing to breach protocol for it.

As he moved towards the pad, Christine reached out and gripped his arm as she whispered, “A lot can happen in a year.” Her hand anchored him in place, forcing him to attend to her soft words, “Please, give yourself every minute.” It was clearly something she’d been rehearsing for several hours, but it rang genuine when she delivered it nonetheless.

Leonard resisted the instinct to shake her off; instead giving her a small, tight smile before taking his place on the pad as the door hissed open. As he’d suspected, the away team consisted only of Jim and Spock, because of course Jim hadn’t learned anything about beaming down to strange planets without a proper team.

Stopping abruptly just inside the door, Jim looked like he wanted to say something else entirely, but mindful of the Vulcan by his side, he instead said, “Doctor McCoy: Spock and I will handle this.”

His title? Fuck that. It took everything in his power to resist the urge to glower and instead keep his tone light and even. “Without me, Jim?” Knowing he was pushing it, Leonard managed something approaching his usual teasing smile, “You'd never find your way back.”

Trying to resist the smile, Jim replied, “Well, I think it would be wiser if…”

“I'd like to go.” Leonard managed a shrug, because a simple hypo had taken care of the potential recurrence of blurred vision, “I'm fine, Captain.” 

And there was something about that shrug, with a veneer of confidence plastered over something else, that Jim couldn’t resist capitulating to. “All right, Doctor. If that's what you want.” 

It was what Leonard wanted, but that didn’t stop a spark of anxiety flaring deep in his gut as the others joined him on the transporter pad. Chapel was quick; hands moving over the controls before he could call out that he had changed his mind. 

They materialized on a barren planet, a desolate landscape of rusty sand and rock. Dried blood, thought Leonard. The entire place was the color of dried blood. Of all the beautiful planets they’d been to, and had yet to discover, of course this was what he got. There was a brief gust of hot air that seared the inside of his nostrils, but otherwise it was utterly devoid of any life. Inanimate. Dead.

Spock’s scanner whined for a moment before he snapped it closed and said, “The facility is underground due to frequent atmospheric storms. We will have to climb down an access hatch, as the lifts were deactivated when the facility was decommissioned.”

Just great. Climbing down hatches; Leonard could have done that without leaving the ship. The air had a metallic tang to it that tickled his nose. He idly scuffed up a small puff of red dust with the toe of his boot as Spock fussed around the access point, using some Starfleet protocol to unlock it. He could sense Jim glancing at him from time to time, but made a point of looking off into the distance instead. Nothing but bare rock so far as he could see.

Leonard entered the vertical hatch last, grateful for the near darkness as they climbed down what seemed like an interminable series of metal rungs. Sweat prickled his brow sooner than it should, but before he could question his assertion of being fit for duty the welcome sound of Spock’s feet reaching a solid floor echoed up the shaft. He could sense Jim’s eyes on him as the Vulcan worked to bring the residual back-up batteries back online, but their flashlights weren’t enough to allow careful scrutiny. When the lights did flicker on it was a weak glow that did nothing for Leonard’s complexion, but considering Jim looked downright anemic as well he supposed it wasn’t due to his condition. 

His condition; that’s what he’d started to refer to it over the last six hours, as he’d reluctantly asked Christine for a second pair of eyes on his scan results. Dragging himself back to the present, he realized the others had started off down the corridor and hurried to stay at their heels. It was a familiar order for them: Jim, Spock, Leonard; always the third man through the door. Leonard had only half listened to Spock’s explanation: something about needing to bring main power online in the engineering station, then proceeding to the control room to download the database. Rounding a corner, Jim gave a low whistle; they’d found the engineering station, but to call it nonstandard would be generous.

Regarding the mess of cables and open circuits, Leonard frowned, “What the hell happened here?”

“A prolonged atmospheric storm cut off the facility; it is impossible to beam down directly into this level due to the unique properties of the rock.” Spock regarded his scanner, trying to make sense of the tangle. “It appears improvised repairs were required to keep the power online during their isolation.”

With the sinking realization that the short mission just got a lot longer, Leonard glowered at the console. “It’s a goddamn bird’s nest.”

“Well.” Jim clapped Leonard on the back and leaned towards Spock’s scanner. “Let’s get it straightened out.”

Rolling his eyes, Leonard grumbled, “I’m a doctor, Jim, not an electrician.” It was an everyday complaint, and it left his lips without a thought. As if this was just another ordinary day. Something twisted low in Leonard’s gut. 

The captain just smirked and prodded a spot on the scan, offering a suggestion to the Vulcan that Leonard promptly tuned out. Ten minutes later, he wished he’d paid better attention. They were all elbow-deep in the relays, reconnecting what appeared to be some rather dodgy bypasses. It was almost complete, they were on the last connection, in fact, when there was a flash of light, a smell of ozone, and then nothing at all.

Jim woke to his cheek pressed against a cold floor and a throbbing headache. Hauling himself to his hands and knees, he realized that the lights, at least, were on. He felt shaky; the shock had been strong, but… nervously checking brought a wave of relief: at least he hadn’t pissed himself. That concern out of the way, he blinked to correct his blurred vision and croaked, “Spock?”

There was an indistinct motion to his left as Jim managed to get his feet underneath himself, sitting up to find the Vulcan doing the same.

A glance to his right revealed McCoy sprawled on his back, chest rising and falling, but otherwise still. “Bones?” Jim crawled over, cupping the other man’s cheek and patting gently, “Bones?” Nothing, just another shallow breath in and out. The floor was hard and cold. Jim wondered if he should take off his shirt; to try and offer a covering or a pillow.

Crouching next to the captain, Spock regarded the unconscious man. “The doctor must have received an excessively large electrical shock.”

“No, that's not it.” Jim reached across the still form and ran a hand down Leonard’s upper arm, then gently gripped the other man by the crook of the elbow as if anchoring them together.

It was curious, this behavior of the captain. Concern, yes, naturally, but as Spock considered the range of human emotion _sorrow_ seemed relevant to the display in front of him. But logically, “Nothing else could have caused this, Captain. At least nothing that has happened here.”

Dropping his head for a moment, Jim took a breath before forcing himself to meet his friend’s eyes, “You're right, Spock. The shock was serious because of his weakened condition.” 

A weakened condition? Unexpected. “May I ask precisely what is troubling the doctor?” Spock could sense... something. It was dancing around in Jim’s eyes and made a twinge of unease settle low in his belly.

Glancing down at Leonard’s slack features, Jim came to a decision and softly said, “I don't think he would've told you himself, but I think you should know now.” He had to take a breath before he could continue, realizing it was the first time he’d have to explain, but would be far from the last, “It's xenopolycythemia.” 

Vulcan control was stretched, something inside Spock viscerally flexing with a hot emotion, then moving back into place as he raised an eyebrow and replied, coolly, “Yes. I know of it, Captain.” 

Mission, authority, duty, it all fell into the background in the face of a simple truth that made Jim feel like he could just about cry, right there, sitting on the floor in an alien planet. “Then you know that nothing can be done.”

Spock leaned forward, as if he was going to reach for Jim, but Leonard gave a soft grunt and shifted, finally waking up. 

Jim watched closely as the doctor raised a shaky hand to his own temple, frowning at finding himself on the floor. Gently, he asked, “Bones, how is it?” 

Biting back disorientation and bile, Leonard quickly asserted, “I'm all right.” There was gravel in the southern drawl as he blinked up at them, looking between the two men hovering over him, “Are you all right, Spock?”

“Very well, Doctor. The captain and I seem to have suffered no ill effects.”

Massaging his forehead more firmly as he tried to sit up, the doctor dissembled, “Oh, that console really got to me. I must be especially susceptible to its charms.” Silence greeted the remark, and Leonard felt a sinking suspicion as he looked between them, then down at the Vulcan’s hand where it gripped his arm, helping him to sit up.

Confirming Leonard’s suspicion, Jim softly admitted, “Spock knows.”

Leonard could have sworn there was a flash of compassion in the dark brown eyes. Pushing that thought back, along with his own treacherous emotions, he brushed off their hands and made to lever himself onto his knees, drawling as he did so, “Well, we'd better get to the control room.” 

“Are you in any condition to get up?” And there; real concern briefly cracked through the facade of the afternoon.

Ignoring the concern, and his own reservations, Leonard pushed himself up with a grunt, wavering slightly on his feet even as he asserted, “Don't worry. I can make it, Jim.” 

 

**************

The rest of the mission went off without a hitch. In the end, it had been good for Leonard to join as the medical database was partially corrupted and took a doctor’s eyes to evaluate what was worth trying to salvage and what should simply be left behind. By the time they climbed back up the shaft and emerged on the barren surface, Leonard was ready to be back on the ship and didn’t think he’d ever been happier to feel the unnatural tingling of the transporter.

He could sense Jim barely refraining from putting an arm around him as they strode through the corridors to med bay for a post mission physical. Keeping a half step ahead, despite the fact that perspiration soon prickled on his forehead at the pace, Leonard made a point of waving M’Benga towards the captain and Spock as soon as they entered the facility. One touch: that’s how far away he was from losing it. Just one touch from Jim.

Chapel checked him over herself, lips thinning when he had to recount his reaction to the shock. In the end, despite her repeated scans, there was nothing to be done but release him to get some rest. As he moved to leave, she pressed a med kit into his hands with a weak attempt at a smile and murmured, “Just some things you’ll need.”

Spock was already gone by the time Leonard rounded the privacy screen, no doubt taking the database for processing. Jim was hovering, uncertain, in the main entryway and silently fell into step beside his partner. Alpha shift was long over, and neither were expected back on duty until the next day. They didn’t speak as they made their way through the corridors, barely acknowledging the crewmen they passed.

When the door of Jim’s quarters slid closed behind them, Leonard sagged, exhausted by carrying on as if nothing had changed. A hand closed over his shoulder, and then he was gently turned and pulled into a tight embrace. Burying his face in the crook of Jim’s neck he inhaled deeply, past that damned red dust to the scent of the other man.

Softly, against his temple. “Oh, Bones.” 

It was Jim’s murmur that broke Leonard’s tenuous grip on control and he gave a shudder, not crying, but close as he mumbled, “Is this what it’s going to be like?”

Somehow Jim knew what he meant: maintaining a facade on duty, but losing control at home. Gently, cheek pressed against the side of Leonard’s head, Jim said, “Spock and I talked while you were being checked out. We’re assigned to spend the next two weeks doing basic mapping of an uninhabited system. He suggested that it would be a good chance for more junior officers to take the conn-- Sulu and Chekov will take full shifts in command.”

Leonard could sense where this would be going: Jim could work from his quarters, but essentially be off bridge duty. He didn’t think he could manage being off duty; not having a distraction. Not doing something _useful_ while he still could. “Jim, I don’t want..”

Jim’s arms squeezed more tightly. “I know, but I need some time too.” He planted a kiss on Leonard’s cheek, pulling back to meet his partner’s eyes, “Even if I have to drag you away from an experiment in the med bay for lunch.”

It was the opposite of what he’d expected: if anyone tended to get lost in work in an effort to avoid emotion it was Jim. Still, Leonard couldn’t argue with that; not when Jim’s eyes appeared a little too wet as well. Leonard pulled back further and held up the med kit, desperate for the distraction, “Looks like M’Benga and Christine got us a present.”

With a swipe at his eyes that wasn’t nearly as discreet as he intended, Jim led the way to the sofa and flopped down, waving for Leonard to do the same, “Well, what’s in it?”

Opening the clasp, Leonard rolled his eyes, but in a manner Jim recognized as good natured. Cheeks pinking slightly, the doctor set a box of condoms on the low table, followed by a series of hyposprays. “ _If_ we want to…”

Jim reached out and placed his hand over his partner’s, cutting him off as he said, “We want to.”

Leonard looked ready to object for a moment, then sighed and picked up the first hypo. “Then this is for you. It will act as a retroviral prophylactic: daily injections, and only so long as I’m early or mid-stage. Once this hits late stage it becomes more virulent and I’m not risking that. It’s not an easy drug, Jim, there’s a reason we don’t use it as a matter of course. Even for short term use, there will be tenderness at the injection site, mild systemic inflammation, headaches…”

Squeezing Leonard’s hand, Jim cut him off again. “Worth it.” He tilted his head to one side, invitingly, and the doctor didn’t hesitate to administer the drug.

“We’re waiting forty-eight hours for the first two doses to take effect.” Leonard sifted through the remaining hypos; the rest are for me.”

“Do you need to take anything now?

Looking through the drugs again, he shook his head. “No.”

“Then let’s have a shower.” Jim ran a finger along Leonard’s knuckles. “You go ahead. I’ll order us some dinner and join you.”

Offering a grateful smile, Leonard closed the kit and headed into the bathroom without another word. Jim waited until he heard the water start, then hunched over on the sofa, biting down on his fist to hold back the howl he’d been wanting to voice all day. It came over him in a wave: fury, fear, a twisting sickness deep in his gut. Floods of emotion he had no idea how he’d managed to suppress for the intervening hours. 

Tasting blood, Jim swore; he’d broken his own skin. Lowering his hand revealed drops of blood welling in the center of telltale depressions, already starting to bruise in wider auras. Bones was sure to notice the series of regular marks and recognize them as teeth. 

Gasping back what could have been a sob, Jim forced himself to stand on shaky legs and make his way to the computer, sending a message down to the mess hall. The shower was still running, so he stripped off his clothes, squared his shoulders, and joined his partner.

There were new bruises on Leonard’s body: all down his back where he’d collapsed earlier, something that looked like he’d bumped into a railing… one that looked like it might have been an overly enthusiastic clap on the back. Jim’s jaw twitched at that, and he resolved to be much more gentle with his affection. 

Turning, Leonard caught Jim by the elbows and gently maneuvered him under the spray as well. The water briefly ran red down the drain as the layer of dust on Jim was swept away. Leonard shuddered at the sight; too close to the appearance of blood. 

Jim washed himself quickly, haphazardly, and for once Leonard didn’t complain about _alien organisms_. He’d brought clothes with them so they could change in the warm bathroom: Leonard’s threadbare Ole Miss sweats and some academy PT clothes for himself. Familiar old favourites. Impulsively, Jim gently towelled Leonard’s hair dry, a genuine smile briefly crossing his face at the pleased grunt wrung out of the doctor by the gesture. Checking they were both decent, he pressed a quick kiss to the older man’s lips, then led him back into the main quarters.

It was a good precaution as the food had arrived while they were in the shower. Without a word, they sat side by side on the sofa and Jim lifted the cover off the tray: club sandwiches, fries, and iced Leth’a juice. Comfort food for both of them in the Academy, when a deli around the corner offered a respite from the canteen or their own cooking.

Normally this would have earned him an appreciative word from Leonard, maybe even a reminder of another time, hungover or swamped with exams, when they’d resorted to this exact meal. Instead, they ate in silence, Jim aware of Leonard’s eyes on the marks on his hand the whole time. The food didn’t seem to taste like anything and his stomach clenched uncomfortably with every bite. He forced himself to eat, methodically chewing and swallowing and avoiding his swirling thoughts in favor of single-minded concentration. It reminded him of learning to eat again, after Khan, when every bite tasted like ashes and set him on the edge of vomiting. And that… he didn’t let himself consider what that reminded him of. 

Once they’d finished, Leonard took a sip of his drink and leaned back with a sigh, pulling up his legs and tucking his bare toes against the cushions as he said, “I guess you have a lot of questions.”

Jim nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Not even trusting himself to look. They sat shoulder to shoulder, facing the large transparent aluminum window rather than each other. The angle meant that instead of the planet they were treated to the stars instead, an expanse that still brought a tug of excitement in the fibre of Jim’ being. 

With a clinical detachment, Leonard took another quick sip of his drink and began to explain, “It’s essentially a progressive bone marrow and blood cancer with a retroviral etiology, but gene and immune therapies haven’t been effective in removing it and the mechanism by which transcription accelerates over time hasn’t been effectively characterized. I must have been infected in the last three to six weeks.” 

Three to six weeks. A handful of missions. In the pause, Jim couldn’t resist asking, “How?” Because if anything counted as a monumental fuck up, this did.

Softly, the theory that had crystallized into a near certainty filled the space between them. “It’s significantly more contagious in its late stage; that’s probably how I caught it yet haven’t passed it on. The timing would roughly backtrack to our relief mission to Altus IV, when I had to do field surgery after the earthquake. Blood-borne transmission could have occurred; we were all pretty banged up in the aftershock and then continued to dig out civilians. One of them must have had late stage xenopolycythemia and we’d have never known if the first priority was an urgent wound and they were unconscious. We were sharing equipment down there, and didn’t have enough scanners to go around.” Leonard scrubbed a hand over his face. “We saved lives, but it was barbaric.” 

Jim had ordered the medical team into that situation. Even led the away mission himself. He felt sick; a feverish prickling along his hairline at the thought that he’d put the other man in the situation where this happened. He remembered an image of Bones: a cut on the doctor’s brow sluggishly bleeding even as he plunged his hands into the bloody bandaging of an Altian they’d pulled out of the rubble with a nicked artery. Clenching his hands into tight fists, he could feel himself cutting small crescents into his own palms. The silence stretched until Jim managed to ask, “Why didn’t our bioscanners catch it?” 

After a moment, Leonard gave a shrug against the other man’s shoulder and said, “It’s difficult to detect until it’s truly infected the host, and even then the initial viral load can be subthreshold, and remain that way for several days or even weeks. I washed out my cuts and scrapes, but I operated for hours on the surface, elbow deep in god knows what. That mission was just after the last routine ship wide medical tests. I’d have picked it up next week if it hadn’t gone symptomatic.”

Symptomatic. Tentatively, eyes fixed on the stars as if he could gather courage from them alone, Jim had to ask, “What’s going to happen?”

“For a while, not much: headaches, dizziness, fatigue, shortness of breath, issues with eyesight… that can all be managed. I’ll probably bleed a little too much from small cuts and might get sore and even itchy if the temperature changes.” He had to roll an eye at that in disgust; because of course the disease that would kill him was something that made you itchy. “I’ve started myself on medication to manage those symptoms, and thin my blood, but it won’t be enough indefinitely.” Leonard’s hand slid down, brushing against Jim’s until the captain turned over his hand and they laced their fingers together. “My blood is basically thickening as red blood cell production increases, which perversely will mean my organs don’t get enough oxygen. Transfusions might help for a time, but the damn virus creates a feedback loop that becomes overwhelming. It’s going to lead to stomach ulcers, angina, blood clots, and eventually total myelofibrosis and heart failure.”

Jim didn’t know what myelofibrosis was, but heart failure was clear enough: Bones was going to die. He’d known it all day, but he somehow hadn’t quite _believed_ it until this matter of fact description threw exactly what was going to happen into sharp relief. Jim felt the other man’s fingers gently trace over the bite marks on his hand and his eyes prickled. Bones was going to die, and there was nothing he could do.

Leonard’s hand gave a gentle squeeze and he put a slow drawl into the other man’s name: “Jim.” It was a tone that evoked bourbon and late nights and something that just felt like _home_.

Jim barked out something that was almost a laugh, choked though it was. “You shouldn’t be comforting me.”

Another squeeze to Jim’s hand, and simply a soft, “Let’s go to bed.” 

It was absurd. All of it; the whole damn situation couldn’t be real, but Jim let himself be led from the sofa to the bedroom. 

They lay down together, not bothering to change out of their sweats, Jim curled around Leonard. The doctor dropped off to sleep quickly, unable to fight a bone deep exhaustion after the long day. Jim lay awake, trying to think of nothing but the starlight.


	2. Chapter 2

Without an alarm Jim swam to consciousness slowly: first to a familiar sensation of warmth, a long body in front of him, a tickle of hair just brushing his nose… then a knot of ice forming low in his belly as he belatedly remembered that he wasn’t supposed to be happy. Curled around the other man like a crescent moon of protection, he could almost believe it was all fine; that nothing was going to change.

Jim gave the torso in his arms a gentle squeeze, needing to feel the substance of the other man. Nose pressed to the short dark hair at the back of Leonard’s neck, he whispered, “Bones?” If he let the man oversleep his first real shift after the diagnosis, Jim wouldn’t hear the end of it. Not when the doctor had been so clear about his desire to keep working as long as he could. 

A gusty exhale was his only reply and Jim rolled his eyes, lovingly, as he started to prop himself up on an elbow, rising to see the line of a cheek, the sweep of a nose, a closed eye. “Rise and shine, sleepyhead. You’ve got hypos to jab…” There was a bluish cast to Leonard’s lips that made Jim pause. “Bones?” Just another slow breath. 

Sitting up and throwing back the blanket, Jim cupped the side of Leonard’s face in his hand. “Bones!” A gentle pat on the cheek and prising at an eyelid didn’t elicit a response either and he felt his heart speed up; hands starting to shake. “Shit!” Reaching out and fumbling for his communicator, he opened a channel to sickbay and gulped out something that might have been: _Boneswon’twakeup_. To her credit, Chapel immediately replied with a promise of being there quickly before closing the comm. She hadn’t even asked whose quarters they were in. He supposed it had been a long time since anyone had needed to ask that.

Looking down at Leonard’s lax features and bluish lips, it felt entirely too long before the door chimed the medical override and Chapel hurried into the sleeping area, scanner and med kit at the ready. “Doctor M’Benga will be here shortly, if needed, he’s in the middle of dealing with a skull fracture from a sparring accident.”

Jim wanted a doctor, dammit, but Bones had always expressed confidence in her abilities and she was qualified to offer treatment in her own right so he bit his tongue. Perching on the side of the bed, she waved a scanner over her CMO, nodding to herself when the initial results appeared. The scanner beeped again and she seemed to flinch, then school her features and select a hypospray.

Looking nervously between Leonard and the nurse, Jim tried to catch her gaze, “What is it?”

She ignored the question and pressed a hypo to Leonard’s neck, watching intently as the bluish cast slowly faded from the doctor’s lips. Gently grasping his shoulder, she looked closely for signs of consciousness. “Len? Can you open your eyes for me?”

A few more breaths, a little more healthy color in Leonard’s lips and cheeks. Jim gently stroked a hand through his partner’s hair, ignoring the way Chapel’s gaze lingered on the intimate gesture as he asked, “Bones?”

“Oh.” Leonard’s voice was rough with sleep as he blinked up at them, dismayed to find himself being hovered over again as he slurred, “I have got to stop waking up like this.”

Chapel scanned him again, then gently administered another hypo that had Leonard’s eyebrow raise even as he didn’t make a move to sit up. Embarrassed at being the center of attention, there was a gruffness in his voice as he asked, “What happened?”

“Early conversion syndrome.” Chapel lowered the hand scanner and there was something brittle in her voice as she said, “I’m so sorry, Leonard.”

Eyebrows knotting, Jim frowned, “What’s…” Something about how the other man’s eyes widened for a moment before shuttering made him trail off.

Chapel glanced at the data again, then said, “You should rest today.” She couldn’t resist gently running her hand down Leonard’s upper arm. “Come down when you’ve got some energy and we’ll reassess your medication, okay?” She briskly packed away the kit, gently resting a hand on her captain’s shoulder for a moment, “I’ll see you later, sir.”

Jim waited until he heard the door to the quarters hiss shut, then cautiously regarded his partner. The blue sheets normally brought out a healthy color in the doctor’s face, but this morning they only accentuated a lingering pallor. Tracing his fingers over a cloth-covered collarbone, he softly asked, “Bones?”

Weary, Leonard closed his eyes for a moment; unable to face the fear written all over the other man’s face, because the one thing Jim Kirk never showed was fear— not even when Leonard knew the emotion had him wound tighter than a bowstring. Seeing it so plain, and knowing it was because of _him_ , was just about enough to make the doctor feel like trying to roll over and hide his face in the pillow rather than face it head on. Forcing himself to open his eyes he managed to say: “Take your antiviral and lie down, Jim. I don’t have the energy to sit up just yet.” His voice was just like his father’s, late in the illness, a pronounced drawl that sounded like the words were too heavy in his mouth.

Complying, the captain did as he was told, returning to prop himself up on one elbow so he could watch as more colour gradually appeared in Leonard’s cheeks.

Without preamble, Leonard caught Jim’s hand in his own, pressing it onto his chest as if anchoring himself in place. “Remember when I said that this is progressive, and goes through stages?”

Jim’s gaze slithered down to their joined hands, sensing whatever was coming was not good. “Yes.”

“About one in ten thousand cases are aggressive: once it takes hold the transcription accelerates almost… well, almost overnight. It burns through any notion of stages and swamps the system. The blood thickens rapidly, and keeps doing so in a feedback loop even with treatment. At the same time, the bone marrow degrades from the strain, converting into scar tissue.”

“And this…”

Leonard was so tired; didn’t want to have to explain, but he would for Jim. “Has happened to me, yeah.”

Dragging his gaze from their hands and up to Leonard’s face, Jim said, “So what do we do?”

Nothing. There was nothing to do, but he tried to package that into something more palatable: “Follow Chapels orders: rest, take medication, and head down to the med bay for more thorough scans this afternoon. She’ll be going over whatever her hand scanner picked up now.”

“But… I mean,” Jim wasn’t sure quite what he was trying to ask. Wasn’t quite sure he was able to understand, despite the clear explanation. It was as if he could comprehend the strings of words and meaning, but _understanding_ , internalizing what it all meant, just wasn’t happening. “Isn’t there…”

“No, Jim.” This was what defeat felt like. Surrender. Capitulating to something stronger than oneself. “Not this time.”

There was a thickness in Jim’s throat that usually only came as the first warning of anaphylaxis. A year. They were supposed to have a year. The day before that had sounded like an impossibly short amount of time; this morning he’d give anything for it. “Can’t I…” _do something_ , hung in the air, unspoken.

Leonard understood anyway, as he gave Jim’s hand a squeeze, pressing it for a moment over his heart. There was nothing but affection in the words as he said, “You can make yourself useful and go get us breakfast.” And that was them: always teasing, always irreverent, even in the face of death.

It was a non sequitur, but something the captain could actually do, so with only a brief eyebrow raise in disbelief, Jim brushed a kiss on Leonard’s forehead and pulled back to sit on the edge of the bed. Someone could bring up a tray, but Bones had said, _go get us_ so instead he crossed the small room to his closet and pulled on his black uniform trousers and a dark green sweater to show he wasn’t just off duty but _unavailably_ off duty. It wasn’t something the crew often saw, and they were bound to respect it: civvies on the captain were a sign of enforced convalescence or a rare day of proper leave.

It was easy to sidestep the usual bustle in the mess hall; to ignore the fond smiles the younger crew hid behind their coffee cups as their captain loaded a tray with what was clearly breakfast for two. For a moment even Jim could forget that this wasn’t any other normal morning; that he knew something so one else did and would have to return to that different reality hidden in his quarters. Jim’s smile was brittle when he returned a few soft, “good mornings,” from people hovering around the drinks dispenser and he turned to leave the mess quickly, embarrassed at the confusion he could sense he was leaving in his wake.

Breakfast took place on the sofa, Leonard still in his sweats. They didn’t talk. Neither knew what to say, so they simply pressed close together, thighs touching and shoulders brushing as they pecked at their food. Fifteen minutes of feigned interest in the meal and Leonard pushed his tray away.

Biting back an unwanted comment about how the doctor should eat, Jim pushed back his own tray as well and risked a glance sideways. Leonard was staring straight ahead, still more pale than he should be as a small muscle twitched in his jaw.

When neither man seemed inclined to speak, Jim stretched out and pulled Leonard on top of him, not bothered by the weight even though it made it slightly hard to breathe. The doctor gave a small grunt of surprise at being gently manhandled, but went with the motion and settled with his ear pressed to Jim’s chest.

Jim brought his arms up and wrapped them around his partner, holding Leonard in a cocoon of soft fabric and warm limbs. Into the other man’s dark hair, he whispered, “I don’t know how to be a captain without you.” Jim without Bones: he wasn’t sure when it had become an unthinkable proposition, but it had. His conscience after every decision, what he made damn sure he came home to, and a life among the hundreds in his charge that deep down mattered just a little bit more. A life that pushed him to be a good man, now that Pike was gone.

Moving his ear more directly over Jim’s heart, listening to the beat with the ear of a lover rather than a doctor, Leonard gently scoffed, “Of course you do.”

“I wouldn’t be a captain without you.” Friendship, quick thinking, pity, and a mud flea vaccine. A conspiracy of circumstances that led to his command. And now, his anchor, his Bones...

“And I’d have died over Vulcan along with everyone else on the Enterprise.” The truth of that came easily. The first in a string of so many near deaths. Inhaling Jim’s scent through the fabric of the sweater, Leonard murmured. “There’s no sense in counterfactuals.”

Remembering grumblings at the academy and an early morning class that Leonard had spent in a near stupor before scraping a decent grade, Jim brushed a kiss into the short hair, “You always did hate philosophy, Bones.”

“I got enough ethics from my grandmother and logic from Spock… and we’ve already seen that where you’re concerned it all goes out the window anyway.” He was remembering a vial of blood and his shaking hands and utterly failing at _not playing at God_. 

After a long moment, Jim’s breath hitched. “I’m doing it again, Bones. I’m sorry.” And that was Jim: what others might mistake for a casual selfishness was simply how his mind sometimes worked too fast. Jumping from idea to idea; problem to problem. “You shouldn’t have to make me feel better.” A bitter note crept into his tone, “How fucked up is that?”

“It’s normal, Jim.” Leonard remembered his father offering similar words, even as he asked his son to end his life. _You’ll be fine without me. I’m so proud of you, son. Please._ He took another deep breath of Jim’s scent, counted five beats of the other man’s heart. Here he felt invincible, wrapped in Jim’s arms. As if they could cheat the grim reaper one more time.

They stayed that way for an hour, until what little breakfast he’d managed to eat seemed to kick in and Leonard reluctantly suggested they should go to the med bay.

M’Benga and Chapel were both waiting, and one look at their faces only reinforced the growing gloom of the walk down from Jim’s quarters. Leonard climbed onto the diagnostic bed without a word, subjecting himself to a full series of scans as the captain hovered in the periphery, wishing he understood the displays even as the thinning of Chapel’s lips told him enough.

Once the initial results were in and more detailed follow-up underway, M’Benga set down his pads and began a soft conversation with Leonard, “Commander Spock requested access to your medical records and samples. I believe he wishes to contact scientists on New Vulcan. I was going to let him take the lead on that avenue of investigation.”

Of course, thought Leonard, not even the hobgoblin would be able to resist getting involved. The diagnosis was liable to be a god-damned circus once the rest of the bridge crew found out. Wearily, he acquiesced, “He can knock himself out.”

“I’ve contacted the immunovirology team at headquarters.”

“Any response?”

“Only what we knew already. They agree with the revised prognosis.”

Jim leaned forwards from where he’d started leaning against the wall, inserting himself into the conversation, “Which is?”

M’Benga and Leonard exchanged a glance, the latter giving the smallest of nods even as he tried to remain still for the scanner. “Weeks, Captain. Perhaps not even that long.”

Weeks. There was a buzzing in Jim’s ears like a swarm of bees, then Chapel’s hand closed over his shoulder and guided him down into a chair without a word.

It seemed to take a moment for his hearing to return, as the next thing Jim was aware of seemed to be the end of M’Benga’s next sentence, “…full transfusion, you’ll be tired, but we’ll make sure to wrap up in time.”

In time? Jim felt something sink further in his gut at the realization. It was Thursday: Joanna would be expecting a call from her father later in the afternoon; roughly after dinner in Atlanta. Fuck. It was a special call, too. She’d been in a dance recital over the weekend, and had promised to do the routine again in her living room. Bones had been looking forward to it for weeks. Jim could see the moment Leonard remembered what day it was and blanched, impossibly, paler.

Leonard started to sit up, only for M’Benga to push him back down. “We need to do this now, Len. We’ve barely got you stabilized as it is.”

“But…”

Jim could guess the problem and heard himself volunteer, “I’ll call Jocelyn.”

One eyebrow crawled its way up Leonard’s forehead. Jim and Jocelyn had only briefly met, once, when they were stranded on Earth for Christmas after Khan. “I should…”

Of course Leonard should be the one to call, but there was an overriding concern: “You should be as well as you can for your call with Jo.”

The eyebrow slowly slunk back down, which meant Leonard was considering the idea. Eventually, he said, “Geoff and I need to talk. Alone.” Jim would be there, Leonard knew, until the very end. Which meant he needed to talk with M’Benga and reach an understanding so that Jim wasn’t put in the position of having to make decisions. They could hammer out the eventualities now, doctor to doctor.

“I’ll go call her now.” Jim could guess what they needed to discuss and it made something tighten in his chest. “You two can talk while I’m gone.”

Settling back on to the bio bed with a groan, because if he were honest he was _exhausted_ , Leonard closed his eyes for a moment and then said, “I know you’ve got ship’s business to take care of. I’ll come to your quarters once the transfusions are done and call Jo from there. It’ll be the usual time.”

Pressing a kiss to the too cool skin at Leonard’s temple, Jim tried to keep his voice even as he said, “I’ll see you later.”

**********

It took Jim an hour to get up the courage to call Jocelyn, and he almost disconnected the channel while it was still being relayed through to Georgia. Somehow, he managed to still his hand over the button and the ‘fleet logo blinked to indicate the call was being accepted. It was just the tag end of what could be considered lunchtime and the link opened to what appeared to be a private office.

Jim could see the moment that surprise turned to confusion, then concern.

“Captain Kirk?”

“It’s Jim, please.” They’d been on a first name basis within a few seconds of their short meeting in Georgia. “B-- Leonard wanted to call himself, but he’s tied up.” He could see her marginally relax and hated what he had to say next. “He’s sick. Very sick; we just found out.”

“Sick?” Her eyes narrowed and, Jesus, she was beautiful even when she wasn’t going to take any bullshit. No wonder she was such a successful lawyer.

“It’s terminal, Jocelyn. And there won’t be much time: a few weeks. We’re still running tests. He should be up for his call with Jo this evening.” The words were coming out too fast, but he couldn’t seem to slow down. It was like hearing someone else speak. “He’s been looking forward to seeing her dance all month.”

Something in her face had changed, a tightening around the eyes that Jim couldn’t read. In a voice that was remarkably even, she asked, “What is it?”

“Xenopolycythemia, with early conversion syndrome,” he knew she’d look it up later. “They’re giving him a transfusion now and will be done by the usual time. He looks fine, just tired.” Because damned if he was going to let her suggest it might be best to cancel the call with Joanna.

Her face tightened into something more pinched, but she thankfully didn’t disagree. Instead, breathing a long, shaky, exhale. “We’ll have to decide how to tell her. I want to have a child psychologist already arranged to work with her. And I’ll need to talk to her school as well.” 

“We won’t breathe a word of it tonight. I promise.” Jocelyn gave a sharp nod, an emotion in her dark eyes that Jim couldn’t read. Bones probably could, he thought.

More softly, she asked, “Can I talk to him tomorrow?”

“Probably. It might depend on what kind of treatment they want to do…”. Jim trailed off, realizing he didn’t know that much at all. “I’m sure in the next couple days.”

“Okay.” She nodded, glancing off camera at something and appearing distracted. “Okay,” her attention seemed to return to the call, “I’ll have Jo ready at the usual time. Please comm me if it’s not going to work.”

“I will. Goodb—“ The call terminated, abruptly, from her side.

He wondered if she was going to cry.

******

Jim spent the afternoon working in his quarters, scanning mapping data without really seeing it, approving Chekov’s flight plans and Sulu’s allocations of stellar cartography resources without thoroughly checking the substance of the reports. Knowing them, there wouldn’t be any errors, and if there were Spock could catch it anyway. 

There was an underlying frisson of fear that never went away. It crawled up his spine when he was seated at his desk, so he stood and paced as he reviewed an update on engine efficiency until it settled into a full body itch of unease. Flinging himself down on his couch, Jim dropped the padd onto the floor and scrubbed his hands over his face, hating his inability to distract himself.

He was saved by the door opening with a hiss and the sudden realization that it was almost four in the afternoon, ship’s time, and that could only be, “Bones…” Jim couldn’t quite put his finger on it. There was a glow that definitely hadn’t been there on the way down to the med bay that morning and the bruises under Leonard’s eyes seemed to have vanished as well. “You look…”

Gruffly, with a scowl that looked so much like his usual self, Leonard said, “Chapel worked her magic on me. I didn’t want to scare Jo.”

_Make-up_ Jim couldn’t help but snort, “Jesus.” The man looked like he’d just returned from shore leave. “You’re a good father.”

“Mmmm,” brushing past Jim, he replied, sourly, "put it on my tombstone.”

It was a joke, Jim knew, but it took his breath away. 

Leonard didn’t seem to notice, settling himself at the desk and accessing the comm system. Jim backed out of frame and settled on the couch, not wanting to provide any distraction for Joanna's attention. 

“Papa!”

“Jojo!”

Leonard kept a smile on his face, despite the fact that his legs were shaking under the table throughout the call.

Jim felt sick as he watched the dichotomy. How do you explain to a child that her father is going to die, when you haven’t even had time to face the truth yourself? 

Eventually, after two repetitions of the dance routine and an involved story about the social lives of seven year olds, the half hour call wound to a close. There was a thickness in Leonard’s voice as he ended with his usual send-off. “I love you, Jo-bear. See you next week.”

The screen went dark, then switched to the ‘fleet logo. Leonard stared at it for a moment, then spun in the desk chair to face Jim, “I need a shower.” He waved a hand at his face and scowled to hide a deeper emotion that had been threatening to break free during the call, “Got to wash all this off.”

Sensing that Leonard wanted a moment alone as well, Jim waved a hand at his desk. “I’ve got some reports to review. Holler if you want company.”

Grunting in reply, Leonard levered himself off the chair and stalked into the bathroom, quickly shutting the door behind him.

Settling down with his status reports, Jim had barely settled into the paperwork when the bathroom door slid open again and he heard Leonard storm out and head towards the bed. Raising an eyebrow, Jim set his padd on the desk and followed.

Entering the sleeping area, Jim found Leonard slumped on the side of the bed, soaked from the chest down and nude, the contents of a medical kit scattered over the quilt. A hypospray hung loosely in his fingers, and a faint mark on his neck indicated it had been used.

Resisting the urge to rush to the side of the bed, Jim hovered by the partition and softly asked, “Bones?”

Raising his head, the weariness in Leonard’s face was plain as he said, "The heat makes the capillaries dilate all over my skin and it itches like a sonuva bitch.” It had been like having ants crawling all over him, biting at his skin. A hundred thousand nerve endings on fire all at once. Knowing there was a whine in his tone and not finding it in himself to care, Leonard said, “I just want to feel clean.” 

Jim tipped his head to one side, considering, “It’s the temperature that’s the problem?”

“That, and that it’s all over at once. It’s a huge change in blood flow.” Leonard dropped his head back down and admitted, “I just don’t think I could take a cold shower, though, my joints are aching as it is.”

“Lie down."

Too tired and fed up to question or complain, Leonard did as he was told. He heard Jim wander back into the main area of the quarters, then into the bathroom. Not bothering to open his eyes as the bed dipped, the first brush of a warm washcloth on his collarbone had him hiss in a breath and his eyes snapped open.

Jim’s bright blue eyes met Leonard’s, the younger man nervously raising an eyebrow. “Okay?”

Leonard considered. There was a slight reaction, but very subtle; the washcloth not as hot as a shower, and the trail across his skin cooled quickly. It wasn’t just okay, it was… “Good,” he groaned, closing his eyes again and enjoying the sensation as Jim started a purposeful stroking over his unwashed skin. The cloth roamed across his chest, caressing rather than arousing, and over his neck, dipping behind his ears as he mumbled, “I did this for you.”

“I remember.”

Leonard smiled. “No, you don’t.” Recalling days recovering in the apartment in San Francisco he cracked his eyes open and amended, “Not the time I’m thinking of, anyway.” At Jim’s curious look he explained, “After we gave you the serum. You almost died all over again. It wasn’t pretty. We finally got you stabilized— sort of— and I sent everyone away and looked after you myself.”

The cloth stilled for a moment, then resumed its path, “I’m sorry, Bones.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Jim.” Although it was, in a way. Leonard quirked a lopsided smile. “You saved us.”

Jim leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Leonard’s lips, then picked up the cloth again. Gently, he worked his way down his partner’s body, cataloguing all the muscles he just about knew as well as his own. Perhaps better, in fact. An expanse of lightly freckled skin that he always ached to touch.

A _shoulder_ that always fit into the palm of his hand as he gave it a squeeze on the bridge.

A _stomach_ that rippled as Bones laughed when they were alone in Jim's quarters; early in the morning and half dressed as they hurried to get ready and accidentally swapped trousers.

A _thigh_ that clenched around him, pulling Jim closer and urging him deeper.

As Jim finished he dropped the washcloth onto the floor and clambered up the bed to wrap a quilt around Leonard and curl in behind him.

It wasn’t even dinnertime, but neither felt inclined to get up again. After a long moment, Leonard softly asked, “What was it like?”

Jim’s arm tightened in a manner that indicated immediate understanding of the question: _dying_.

Thinking back, Jim recalled searing pain and spreading weakness. Cold metal flooring. Knowledge of what was inevitable. “I was scared.” He shifted, gathering Leonard to him more closely as he continued, “I asked Spock to help me not be. I asked him how not to feel.”

“What did he tell you?”

“He told me he did not know.” Jim pressed his nose into the short hair at the back of Leonard’s neck and whispered into the dark strands, “He was crying.”

“I don’t think he’ll shed a tear for me.”

“You might be surprised.”

They stayed that way until long after Leonard drifted off. Eventually, leaden numbness in an arm and a need to urinate had Jim squirming out of the bed.

Leonard was still asleep when Jim emerged from the bathroom and the fission of nervous energy was back. His primary coping mechanism for that particular itch was to get shitfaced with Bones; his previous coping mechanism was to get drunk and get in a fight. Riding an adrenaline high of pain and exertion until someone was knocked out or gave up and turned tail— usually the former for him or the latter for an opponent depending on how well they were matched, or, more usually, how outnumbered he was.

His knuckles itched at the thought and it drove him to pull on a set of tight fitting gym clothes. Maybe beating the crap out of a training dummy could suffice in a pinch.

The gym was deserted when he arrived, which should have been a tip given the time of day but he was too out of sorts to think anything of it.

He’d only managed to drag the heavy dummy partway out of the storage locker when the doors briefly opened. Sparing a glance up, Jim paused in surprise.

Spock set down a towel and small bag on the bench that ran beside the sparring mats, indicating the dummy as he did so, “I believe you could do with a real opponent, Jim.”

The use of his first name made the captain frown, shoving the dummy back towards the locker as he blinked in sudden realization, “You cleared the gym?”

“It seemed a reasonable precaution.” The Vulcan was wearing sparring clothes: black and form fitting. 

But then… “You knew I’d be here?”

“A supposition… and an alert placed on the doors.” Maintaining deliberate eye contact with the captain, Spock set a dermal-regenerator and an osteo-regenerator on the bench next to his towel. “Would you prefer mixed martial arts, Judo, or Suus Mahna?”

Jim smiled in a near-feral baring of teeth, something rattling around inside him that set his knuckles twitching in anticipation. “Mixed.”

Inclining his head in the only warning he was going to give, Spock said, “I shall not endeavour to go easy on you.”

Jim’s smile softened, becoming frayed and sad around the edges. “I wouldn’t expect you to, Spock.” Pushing the expression from his face, he went into a defensive crouch, readying himself for the first onslaught.

And it was an onslaught. The Vulcan came at him quickly, as if ensuring Jim knew this was consensual though the sheer force of the attack.

Parrying, Jim sidestepped the attempt to take him down to the mat and lashed out with a quick right- left- jab. The first missed, the second connected slightly off-target, but the shock of pain in his fist centred his attention to just the _now_ and the urgent need to turn and lash out again.

Blows landed quickly after that, in both directions, and they punched and kicked and threw each other until Jim finally found himself on his back, winded so violently he was sure a rib was jarred out of place. Gasping, unable to breathe, he tensed for a blow that didn’t fall. 

Spock’s face obscured the grey ceiling panels, breathing heavily, a trickle of green blood running down his forehead and a mottled swelling rapidly obscuring his left eye. “Can you sit up, Jim?”

He weakly shook his head in a no, tears forming at the corner of his eyes as his diaphragm gave one last spasm and then finally, blessedly, let him breathe again. Gasping in a whooping breath, he almost choked on it before settling into a series of gulping pants.

“Easy, Jim.” A hand tightened on his shoulder and he let himself be grounded by it.

Adrenaline faded sharply into exhaustion and burning limbs and he finally found his voice, “Thanks, Spock.” A tremulous smile settled on his face at the rush of endorphins that were still coursing through him.

Spock nodded, eyes searching for a moment before he vanished for several seconds, returning to wave a medical scanner over his captain. “You have cracked two knuckles and broken your right index finger, a hairline fracture to your orbit, and torn the cartilage by your fifth and sixth ribs, but otherwise the damage is superficial.”

“And you?”

“Superficial damage as well.” He strapped the osteo-regenerator over Jim’s right hand, then picked up the dermal-regenerator, appearing to contemplate which bruise to start on first. “All best taken care of before the crew believe we have been, to use one of your words, _brawling_ in the gym.”

“Spock, we _have_ been brawling in the gym.”

“Did it help?”

Jim considered for a moment. The itch was gone; the anger that had been making him restless seemed to have subsided, for the time being. “Yeah, Spock, I think it did.” The Vulcan merely nodded, intent on the regenerator read outs rather than making eye contact. “Thank you.”

Spock did look up then, something just visible in his dark eyes. “You are welcome, Jim.”

The captain didn’t move from the floor while Spock treated him. Didn’t move while the Vulcan treated himself either. Eventually, the sweat had finally dried as well and Jim let himself be pulled to his feet, escorted to the officer’s mess, and fed a late dinner of spaghetti before being walked back to his quarters.

Leonard was still in the bed, nude, where Jim had left him earlier. Rather than wake the other man up, Jim gently administered a nutritional hypospray from the med kit and crawled in under the covers. Gathering Leonard loosely in his arms, he fell into an exhausted sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Freshly cut grass hung heavy in the air and he was floating, tucked against a warm body and wrapped in a soft quilt. The window was open, letting in a whisper of warm spring air and fresh scents of the countryside. That perfect time of year without climate control. Soft clattering downstairs; Gram, making breakfast. 

Any moment now her voice would call upstairs to them, tone warm with affection and laughter at the two grown men decadently sleeping in upstairs. Jo was coming. He was going to take her to groom Baxter. He remembered turning in Jim’s embrace, waking the other man with a kiss and promises of pancakes waiting for them. 

This had happened before, Leonard realized. It was a memory… and he was dreaming.

Muzzily, he reached towards consciousness and found there _was_ a long, warm body behind him, and a soft synthetic Starfleet quilt. A glow from the chrono indicated it was morning; not long before their usual alarm for alpha shift.

Soft puffs of breath against the back of his neck shallowed in a way that indicated Jim was waking up as well. Although there were signs of that enough already… Leonard hitched himself back, pressing more firmly against Jim and feeling an answering spark in his own groin. 

The arm around Leonard’s midsection tightened and Jim ground back in a manner that was suggestion and promise and…

“Jim, we can’t.” Roughened by sleep, his voice caught in his throat as he suddenly _remembered_.

“Mmmm, s’okay. I just want to hold you.” Jim’s arm tightened again to more firmly press chest against back, although his hips withdrew slightly. A kiss was brushed against the back of Leonard’s head.

God, it felt good, and despite having slept he was still so tired. So very tired… Closing his eyes, he breathed along with Jim’s slow inhale and exhale until he drifted off again. 

**********

In the neighbouring cabin the ‘fleet logo vanished from the desk screen as a long-range connection was made. Sun-warmed stone filled the background of the image as a figure settled more comfortably in front of the camera. Warmth and surprise were just discernible in his words, to a knowing ear: “Greetings, Commander Spock.”

“Greetings, Ambassador Spock. I seek your counsel.”

Sensing the nature of the request from the tension in the younger Vulcan’s frame, the ambassador quickly, but regretfully, began to shake his head, “You know, Spock, that I cannot…”

“Regarding xenopolycythemia.”

The elder Vulcan froze, then an eyebrow slowly raised, “Dr. McCoy?”

“Is near death.”

“Spock…”

The younger Vulcan replied, firmly, “Spock…”

They both paused, at an impasse with themselves. Eventually, the elder Vulcan seemed to yield and asked, “Have you encountered the people of Yonada?”

“No.” Spock raised an eyebrow. “I take it you have?”

“Yes. We encountered them shortly after our McCoy’s diagnosis; it was there we found the knowledge of the Fabrini, which included the cure.”

“Tell me.”

He could speak of ethics and paradoxes, instead, the ambassador simply replied, “It was a long time ago, Spock, and a complicated treatment. The precise instructions…”. He simply trailed off as a means of emphasizing the challenge.

Unwilling to waver, Spock pressed right back: “Fortunately, as you know we possess a near-eidetic memory.” It was a slight overstatement, no matter how superior Vulcan memory was to that of a human, theirs was far from infallible.

Brown eyes met through the screen, a long consideration before: “Please send me your medical data and allow time to attempt to re-create the full instructions. I will transmit what limited information I have at-hand now.”

“Time, Ambassador, is of the essence.”

Inclining his head, a weariness apparent in the gathering lines on his forehead, the elder Vulcan replied, “Understood.”

 

**********

Bones was still breathing softly, body lax except for the occasional twitch. 

Jim shifted to relieve an ache in his hip and watched an eyelid flutter briefly before settling back against Leonard’s cheek. It was nine, maybe ten o’clock and the other man was still sound asleep, despite having briefly woken almost several hours ago. Shifting again to get more comfortable, Jim trailed a hand over a bare shoulder. He had an uncontrollable urge to touch, to not let let go of the comfort of simple skin to skin contact. Shifting again, a rib twinged on Jim’s left side. It had been a kick, he remembered, well timed after a feint. The regenerators had done their job, but a hasty application in the gym was no real replacement for the visit to med bay that they both had skipped.

Sliding his hand down an arm, Jim cocked his head at an unexpected sound. A tapping? Frowning in confusion, he reluctantly pulled away and slipped out of the bed, pulling a pair of sweats over yesterday’s boxers and grabbing a clean-enough top. God, Bones was going to chew him out if he started to get smelly.

The tapping was coming from the door to his quarters. Soft, but cautiously insistent. It was strange to not simply use the chime, but if he’d been asleep, this wouldn’t have woken him. Perhaps that had been the intent.

The door slid open and Jim was confronted by his first officer, only the faintest hint of a green bruise bleeding into his hairline as testament to the night before. “Spock?”

“We have…”. Spock inclined his head in a gesture that signalled some measure of discomfort with what he was about to say, “Broken the rules, Captain.”

The Vulcan held out a padd which Jim curiously accepted, thumbing on the screen and stopping dead at the first line of text. It took him a moment to catch his breath, voice still faint as he looked up and asked, “Is this real?”

“It is…” Spock considers how to appropriately set expectations and hedged, “A promising start.”

“The other McCoy had xenopolycythemia? And survived?”

“It would appear so, Jim.”

“And Ambassador Spock…”

“May be able to recreate the cure.”

“May?”

“It was a long time ago, Captain.” A lifetime ago, in human terms.

“But…” Jim’s tongue felt too thick in his mouth.

“But we will do everything we can. The Ambassador has requested twenty-four hours to attempt the formula and dosing regimen from memory, after which time Doctor M’Benga and I can run simulations against the latest scans from Doctor McCoy.” 

“I just…” A hand gripped him hard under the elbow as he seemed to lose the capacity for speech, steering him back into the quarters and onto the couch. “Holy shit, Spock.” The words were muffled by his fingers, padd forgotten on the cushions as Jim slumped back with his hands over his face and mumbled through the digits. “I can’t take another surprise here; I really can’t.”

“Are you not…” _pleased_? This reaction was unexpected; he would have to consult Nyota.

Jim lowered his hands and raised his head, understanding he was confusing his friend. “I’m so fucking relieved I can barely breathe, but I’m scared, Spock. Scared it won’t work.”

Considering his knowledge of human emotion Spock decided it seemed a reasonable mixture, under the circumstances. He straightened in his perch on the edge of a desk chair. “I thought you would want to know the truth, before I speak with Doctor M’Benga about the source of this information.”

Gathering more control over his emotions, Jim straightened as well, real gratitude in his eyes as he said, “Thanks, Spock. Do you think…” A soft noise from the bedroom had Jim call out, “We have company, Bones!” The doctor wouldn’t be thrilled if he walked into the main room naked and found the Vulcan there as well. There was a grunt of acknowledgement, then what sounded like the bathroom door closing. 

Standing, Spock reached for his padd. “I will convey the preliminary information to Doctor M’Benga, as well as the agreed timeline for progress.”

“What are you going to tell him?”

“That a colleague on New Vulcan may have a promising, yet wholly experimental, avenue for treatment.”

Standing on legs that were only ever so slightly shaky, Jim walked his friend to the door, briefly gripping a shoulder as he said, “Thanks, Spock.”

With an incline of his head, the Vulcan left.

There was something threatening to burst in Jim’s chest. Something that felt a lot like hope trying to batter its way free and fill him with a nervous energy. He quickly returned to the bedroom and pulled on clean clothes that were fit for the corridors, listening for the water to shut off in the bathroom sink.

The door slid open and there was Bones: hair standing up every which way in a manner that made something tug hard at Jim’s heart.

“What did Spock want?”

Jim drank in the other man, too pale, weary, but maybe not for much longer. Now that there was hope, he was suddenly terrified all over again. Swallowing, he felt like he could be sick, right then and there. Needing a moment alone to compose himself, Jim heard himself say, “If you take your meds, I’ll get us breakfast and tell you. I’ll be back in ten.”

Leonard narrowed his eyes in suspicion at the tremulous smile Jim couldn’t quite hide, but accepted the other man’s terms, “Pancakes. Not those replicated scrambled eggs.”

“Pancakes it is.” He pressed a quick kiss to Leonard’s toothpaste-fresh lips, then used the pretext of needing to find his boots as a means of ducking eye contact.

Halfway out the door of his quarters, scattered thoughts leaping between hope, fear and the effort it was going to take to put one foot in front of the other all the way down to the mess and back, Jim paused in surprise at a sudden dull thud behind him. It sounded like something heavy had been dropped in the bedroom; he almost left, but instead hovered in the doorway and called back, “Bones?”

Silence.

The hair prickled on the back of Jim’s neck and he turned on his heel, quickly crossing the main room to the bedroom. 

Feet were the first thing to catch his eye. Feet splayed on the floor, their position contorted and unnatural. Following up the legs he found Bones face down, half-on half-off the bed. The other man was breathing, but his eyes were only partway open and not reactive as Jim rolled him over and called his name.

“Kirk to med bay: medical emergency in my quarters.”

*******

Spock held him back as M’Benga and Chapel frantically worked. Even after they’d relocated to the med bay at a run and Jim stopped trying to pull towards the biobed, the firm grip on his arms was unrelenting. Eventually, M’Benga pressed one last hypo to Leonard’s neck and pulled a privacy curtain around the bed, waving at two chairs for visitors by an empty bed. While it would be his privilege, using the CMO’s office was almost unthinkable.

“He’s had a stroke, Captain. It was massive, but he’s hanging in there.” Sitting heavily in the hard plastic chair across from his captain, the doctor rolled his shoulders in a gesture designed to release tension before he admitted, “I am now acting contrary to Leonard’s documented wishes.” The question must have been plain on Jim’s face, as he continued to explain, “A plan was created for end of life care when the conversion syndrome took hold. Specifically, it was to be palliative only. He should be dying right now, Captain, but I’m keeping him alive.

“He wanted to spare you having to make choices, and to err on the side of a short course, but I’m afraid that’s all a mess now with the potential treatment for xenopolycythemia. The instructions were copied to Dr. Philip Boyce; I could also consult him, but as a chair of the ‘fleet medical ethics board it could put him in a difficult position.”

Finding his voice, Jim asked, “What are you saying?”

Glancing at the Vulcan hovering over the captain’s shoulder, M’Benga replied softly, “If you think I should follow his previously stated wishes, I will.”

“And if I think you shouldn’t?”

“There’s enough potential in the information from Commander Spock to constitute a material change in circumstances from when the instructions were drawn up. I… it wouldn’t fly in a review board, but I wouldn’t be… unwilling, if we felt it was for the best.”

We’d have to be prepared to cover it up if Leonard died anyway, or he could lose his medical licence. That’s what M’Benga was saying without saying. And that he was willing to risk losing his licence. Additionally, if Jim _ordered_ his acting CMO to disregard…

“Treat him.” Jim clenched his hands into tight fists over the knees of his trousers, forcing himself to meet the other man’s eyes. “Please.”

M’Benga nodded, working hard to keep a worried frown off his face.

Jim tried to smile, grimly, in return; to convey the words that could get them both court-martialed, _thank you_.

 

**********

Voices swirled in the darkness.

“ _I need your help, son.”_

_”I can’t do this anymore, Leonard. I won’t_.”

“ _I think these things are pretty safe._ ”

Leonard woke with a gasp and a chiming of biobed monitors, aware that every nerve in his body seemed to be aching, from his hair to his toenails. It was too bright; his eyes watered, blurring his vision and he gave a second hitching breath.

“Easy, Bones.” There was a soft touch through his hair and a tapping sound that silenced the alarm. _Jim_ , he realized. Jim was there.

“Nothing serious, Captain.” Another voice? “Just a slight spike in heart rate. He might be dreaming.”

Dreaming? How could he be dreaming when he was awake?

The hand stroked through his hair again, but it felt almost perfunctory. At best distracted. A pair of footsteps receded: the nurse? The hand gave another gentle brush and some of the ache seemed to recede. “Take it easy, Bones.” There was a pause and then what could only be a brush of lips against his forehead and a murmur so soft he almost missed it. “Come back to me.”

Where had he gone? Muzzily, it occurred to Leonard that something bad must have happened. Something very bad. To him.

The hand in his hair pulled away and he was alone. He wanted it back. He wanted Jim.

A soft pressure trailed down his arm, a warm hand gently squeezing his own before it too, vanished. He thought he heard Jim, “I’ll be back later, Bones.”

Later? He must have made a noise, because three quick footsteps sounded on the floor.

“Bones?” Jim’s eyes appeared in his field of view and he sluggishly tilted his head towards that side of the biobed. “Hey, Bones, you with me?” Jim’s hand cupped the side of his face, a thumb swiping over his cheek. The med bay was always too bright, but this time Jim’s eyes seemed to be glistening impossibly more brightly than he’d seen before. 

“You’ve had a stroke. M’Benga couldn’t complete the neural grafting procedure during the xenopolycythemia treatment.”

Treatment? There was no treatment. He’d been clear with M’Benga: no lengths to prolong the inevitable. Just let him go when the opportunity presented itself. Anger, confusion… emotion must have shown on his face somehow, because Jim’s thumb swiped again, reassuringly.

“It’s okay, Bones.” Jim’s eyes seemed to be searching all over his face, for what, Leonard wasn’t sure. “Oh, god, you’re here, aren’t you?”

If his voice wouldn’t come, he tried to raise an eyebrow and that must have worked because Jim suddenly choked out a sob and there was something wet on Leonard’s face and he didn’t understand. Making a noise of distress of his own had Jim pitching forward to press a kiss to his forehead, sibilant reassurances ruffling Leonard’s bangs.

“Captain?” It was Chapel. A soft voice somewhere beyond his field of view.

“I think he’s awake.” Jim’s face retreated from view, but fingers tangled tightly with those of his own hand. “Awake-awake this time.”

This time? What other times had there been?

“Len?” Christine’s blue eyes replaced Jim’s, not as vibrant, but arresting in their own way. A familiar whine preceded a hand scanner pressing gently against his temple and he tried to hold still while also looking past her shoulder for Jim. The results must have satisfied the nurse, because a small smile settled on her lips and she gently tapped his shoulder to get his attention.

“You’ve had a unilateral ischemic stroke with intracerebral hemorrhagic transformation. It was bad, Len. We almost lost you…”

His eyebrows slanted together in a frown and his head gave a little twinge of pain. _You were supposed to._ Hell, it had been agreed. It was all written down in his medical record: a contract with Geoff, forwarded to Boyce.

“It’s okay.” She smoothed a hand over his forehead, erasing the lines. 

He tried to reply. The words didn’t come. _Left is for language_. The monitor gave a warning chime of his increased heart rate and Jim’s face came into view, thick eyebrows knotted in concern. 

Glancing at Chapel, Jim couldn’t keep nerves from slipping a quaver into his voice as he asked, “What’s wrong?”

“He wasn’t expecting this.” Her hand slipped into Leonard’s free one. “There’s a treatment, Len, for xenopolycythemia.” Some measure of disbelief must have shown on his face as she nodded, “Commander Spock was in contact with a scientist on Vulcan and they worked it out with Geoff. You’re halfway through the course of injections now, but you had the stroke before we got started and we have to get your bloods back to normal and eradicate the virus before attempting advanced neural repair.” She flexed her hand inside his. “Can you give me a squeeze if you roughly understood that?”

He gave her hand two squeezes.

Her blue eyes flickered over his face. “I’ll take that as a so-so.”

He squeezed again and she smiled. “Okay. Any pain?”

Not really. A dull ache in his head and a pinched sensation in his joints. He wondered how long he’d been in the biobed. Not enough to squeeze a hand over; he settled for a slow blink instead.

She seemed to understand, giving his hand a squeeze instead and saying, “I’ll talk to Geoff about a mild analgesic, muscle relaxant and a sedative, okay?”

His thoughts were still jumbled, rattling around in a fuzzy out-of-order, yet that sounded like a wonderful idea so he gave her hand a squeeze in reply.

“I’ll be back in a moment.” 

Then she was gone and there was just Jim, hovering over him with too-bright eyes. “Hang in there, Bones.”

_Not planning on going anywhere_. The idea would form, but it rattled around in his head without taking shape in words.

Jim seemed to understand, as he leaned further over the bed until there was just his face and a sensation of the warm, comforting bulk of him. 

The skin under Jim’s eyes was puffy to the point of being bruised; had he done that? 

Jim kissed his cheek, then the corner of his mouth and Leonard managed to sluggishly make his face move to meet the third one that landed on his lips. There was a little choked noise from the back of Jim’s throat that he could only recall hearing after nightmares. Was that what this was? A nightmare?

Before he could try to ask, Jim pulled back and there was a pinch at his neck and then his eyes slid shut and then nothing.

********

Nothing, until there were snatches that were definitely _something_.

“When will he wake up?”

“We don’t know, Captain.”

_Nothing._

“But you said it worked!”

“I said the procedure was successful: we were able to repair some of the damage in situ and the grafts took. I’m good, Captain, but I’m not as good as Leonard. We’re pushing the boundary of what’s possible as it is, and doing so on a ship rather than in a fully specialized neurosurgery unit.” There was the pinch of a hypo at his neck, then M’Benga’s deep tones continued, “We have to wait now, Captain, and assess cognitive function later. Wait and hope.”

_Nothing._

“Captain, Nyota wishes to inquire as to whether you will join us for dinner.”

_Nothing._

“Bones?” Something was stroking over his collarbone. “Hey, Bones?”

_Nothing._

“I love you.”

********

And then, without any real sense of time having passed, Leonard woke up. It was too bright, so he kept his eyes to mere slits and tried to take stock: a fuzziness in his mouth that indicated sedatives, a stiffness in his joints that even the gently undulating biobed couldn’t prevent once a patient spent a week or so in bed, and, upon trying to move, finding his limbs weak and uncoordinated.

He tried to recall the fragments of memory that came before: surgery; they’d talked of illness and surgery. He opened his eyes more widely to reveal the med bay ceiling and, with concentration, managed to get his arm to move, sliding a hand up his own chest, his neck… fingers tentatively feeling upwards until they encountered a thick bandage around his head. 

“Bones?” Jim’s face swam into focus; thinner than it should be, and pale, as if he hadn’t been eating or sleeping well.

Scowling, Leonard rasped the first thing that came to mind: “You shaved off my goddamn hair!”

Jim, the bastard, just laughed so hard with relief he started to cry.


	4. Epilogue

“When did you break your finger?” 

In the late-evening lassitude after a long day on the bridge, the non-sequitur from Leonard took Jim a moment, “Huh?”

“There’s a slight thickening,” Leonard’s fingers ghosted along Jim’s digit, palpating gently. “It’s as if someone was a little clumsy with an osteo-regenerator.” The doctor’s tone had darkened to something with the promise of making life uncomfortable for some hapless nurse.

“It’s nothing, Bones.” Jim shifted on the couch in his quarters, pulling Leonard more firmly against him. The other man still had a lot of muscle mass to regain, but was a comforting living, breathing weight. “Just something that happened while you were playing sleeping beauty on us.”

Leonard snorted at that, immediately distracted as Jim had hoped. He twisted to burrow further into the captain’s embrace, needing a comfort he wouldn’t quite admit to out loud. With a contented hum as Jim’s arm curled around him more tightly, the doctor offered, “Light duties starting tomorrow.”

“Yeah, well, be sure to keep it light.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.” Leonard sighed, “Besides, Christine has already threatened to hypo me into submission if I stay a minute longer than a half-shift.”

Jim smiled. He could picture her delivering the threat, and didn’t doubt she’d follow through if needed. “You have a good team, Bones.”

“Good thing they know when to disregard my orders as well.” It was the nearest they’d come to talking about those decisions, in the week since Leonard had properly woken up and found himself largely bald and cured of xenopolycythemia. Sensing Jim tensing, he hurried to reassure, “It was the right thing to do.”

“In future,” Jim faltered and cleared his throat. “I know why you worked it all out with M’Benga, and I appreciate that, but maybe I should be making decisions, even if you think you know how it will play out.” It was more of a statement than a question.

The silence stretched as Leonard considered, weighing what he’d gone through with his father, and Jim’s own death. Eventually, he said, “I’ll put Boyce on too, as a consult. You don’t have to do what he says, but if possible you should talk to him. He’s good, Jim. God knows there were a few times he didn’t give up on Pike when others might have.” Sensing Jim raising an eyebrow, “I got a look at Pike’s full history when I was treating him after the Narada.” More softly, Leonard added, “And Boyce helped me too, after Khan.”

Tightening his arms, Jim brushed a kiss on the top of Leonard’s freshly regrown hair. Into the still too-short strands, he murmured, “Okay.”

Tilting his head to encourage another kiss, Leonard voiced a suspicion that had been growing throughout his recovery in the med bay: “That Vulcan scientist M’Benga told me Spock collaborated with on the cure…”

When Leonard trailed off, Jim confirmed what had happened, “Yeah, Spock went off and did that all by himself.”

Finally alone in Jim’s quarters for the first time since he’d almost died, Leonard was able to ask, “Quite literally, I take it?” Feeling the other man give a shrug, Leonard rolled his eyes, “Lord, I’m going to have to be nice to him. Unbelievable.”

Unable to resist a gentle teasing, Jim whispered, conspiratorially, “Just be nice to the old one. He likes you more.”

Leonard snorted. And yet… After Khan the Vulcan had been a source of careful support for Leonard himself. Far more than he’d expected, and perhaps even more than he could fully appreciate at the time. With a shrug of his own, “I dunno, Jim. Maybe I’m coming around on both of them.”

Pressing a hand to Leonard’s forehead and feigning concern, Jim said, “Do I need to send you back down to get checked out again? Did we scramble something in there?”

“I didn’t say I’d never insult him again.” Injecting a hint of real promise into his tone, Leonard added, “But just wait ‘till we gang up on you.” Maybe they could keep the captain from charging headfirst into danger so frequently. Not a bad thought, so far as Leonard was concerned.

There was the almost imperceptible shudder as the ship went to warp and the view changed from static stars to the illusion of streaks of light.

Settling further into Jim’s embrace, Leonard breathed a contented sigh and softly asked, “Where are we going again?”

“Not sure; Spock was on shift when the orders came in and said it was a routine diplomatic pickup at Starbase Twelve and then a drop off a week later. Can’t remember the name of the planet now.” He’d been distracted by the thought of Leonard finally coming home. “I’ll review it in the morning.”

“And after that?”

“Why we’re out here: back to exploring.”

Leonard could hear the happy smile in Jim’s tone and smiled as well. “Sounds good to me.”


End file.
